


To say we've got much hope

by marquis



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: M/M, the general speciific au (au), this is mostly just prequel stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three conversations that took place in the year Miles met Jon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To say we've got much hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlight_sugar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/gifts).
  * Inspired by [anything to make you smile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099027) by [starlight_sugar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar). 



> Title is from ["Monsters"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8yZ67xVlMd0) by Band of Horses.
> 
> This fic was published as a spin-off of The General Specific, a universe created by my best friend [Jaz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar). You should definitely read the original verse, because it's much better than whatever this is. Also, Jaz has not read this yet so I cannot state that it is Canon within the universe. Just a note. This is like, an AU of an AU. Which is great fun.

Sixty-three dollars and forty-eight cents into their could-be-something lunches, Miles discovers that the primary reason Jon comes along is not, in fact, because of his charming personality or nice hair. It is, in fact, because Jon regularly forgets to pack a midday meal. If not for Miles, Jon would likely be starving in his office all alone with nothing but a cold, lumpy protein shake to hold him over until the evening.

It is one of the most heartbreaking things that Miles has ever discovered, alongside that one scene in _Bambi_ and the first time his stuffed rabbit went missing in the sixth grade.

“Do you mean to tell me, Jonathan, that you frequently choose to drink _tasteless sludge_ over a real, satisfying meal?” Miles demands, hands placed on top of Jon’s things.

Jon doesn’t acknowledge him, instead picking up a notebook and flipping through it as if this isn’t the worst thing that has ever tangentially happened to Miles.

“Jonathan!” Miles presses.

Jon arches an eyebrow, still staring intently at his work. “That’s not my name,” he says.

Miles sighs, feeling somehow that he is the adult in the situation. This is not something that happens to him often. “Jonny-boy. June-bug. J Crew. Jesus Christ. Jitterbug,” he rambles, going on until Jon is fighting back a smile. “Am I getting warmer?”

“Somehow, you’ve managed to find the North Pole,” Jon tells him, finally looking up. His brow is furrowed and he’s got his head tilted to the side, but the left corner of his mouth is twisted upwards so Miles is going to count this as a win.

“Jon,” Miles says, leaning forward. “If you insist on subsisting off the protein shake mixes in the staff lounge, I will replace every single one of them with sawdust and laugh at your pain daily.”

Jon leans back in his chair and thinks about that for a moment before replying. “I might not even notice the difference.”

“That’s just. Really sad, Jon. Please don’t do that.”

“You can’t keep buying me lunch, though!” Jon insists. “It’s not your responsibility to feed me.”

“Well, someone’s got to do it, Jon, and it apparently isn’t going to be you.” Miles walks over to Jon’s door and grabs the blazer off the coatrack, tossing it in Jon’s direction. “Come on, we’re getting lunch.”

Jon stands up – victory! – and pulls on his blazer. It’s too damn hot for that sort of thing, but then, Miles is wearing flannel so he doesn’t exactly have the right to talk. They’re both going to be sweaty and uncomfortable by the time they’ve walked to the restaurant. It’ll be hilarious. Maybe.

They’re out the door by the time Jon starts up again. “I’m paying this time, Miles,” he says. “Seriously. If you pay, I will kill you.”

Miles shakes his head. “Dude, you hit like a toddler before naptime. I don’t think you could kill me if you tried.”

“Oh god,” Jon groans, just like he does every time. “I slapped you. In the face.”

“Literal months ago, yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I deserved it, probably.”

He had deserved it. Honestly, Miles finds it hard to believe he doesn’t get slapped more often. With the amount of time he spends playing pranks on the rest of his department, they would all be well within their rights to beat his ass senseless. But they don’t, and he loves them for it. He also loves Jon for having done it, however instinctively; Miles hadn’t ever been slapped, before that. It’s like a rite of passage he missed out on as an adolescent.

They’re halfway to lunch before Jon asks the question. It’s the longest they’ve gone so far. Miles is a little too proud of that, maybe.

“Wait – am I going to be able to eat anything here? Do you even know?”

Miles does know. He found out about Jon’s gluten allergy the second time they went to lunch, and spent the rest of that day researching potential locations they could go to. There’s definitely not a list in his upper desk drawer, and that definitely isn’t because he spilled coffee all over it this morning in an effort to keep Jon from seeing it.

Miles mock-gasps, holding a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Jon. As if I would ever take you somewhere without knowing whether you could eat anything, when the whole point is to feed you delicious meals.”

“I’m just making sure!” Jon’s voice gets ridiculously high when he’s defensive.

“We’re going to Juanita’s to get tacos. They have corn-based shells, I think, so you should be able to eat something. I think.” Miles tries his best to sound nonchalant, like he didn’t call the restaurant three days ago demanding to know if they had alternative food options for people with ridiculous food allergies.

Sadly, eating at Juanita’s probably won’t cure Jon’s anosmia. Miles asked about that, too.

“Alright, I trust you,” Jon says warily, like he thinks maybe he’s making a rash decision. Miles can’t wait to see his face when he eats his first taco and _doesn’t die_.

“That’s probably an awful idea,” he says, mostly because making jokes gives him an excuse to smile like an idiot.

Jon shrugs. “Almost definitely.”

It’s a nice day out, sunny and broken up by a little breeze that pulls strands of Jon’s hair into his face. Students are marching by on their way to class with the sort of absentminded determination that Miles is all too familiar with, and music is drifting out the windows of student housing. There’s an overwhelming sense of normalcy, of the uneventful everyday, and Miles hopes that maybe that’s what walks like this will turn into before long.

“What are you grinning about?” Jon demands. “What are you up to?”

Miles holds up both hands. “Nothing! I’m not up to anything!”

“Mhmm.” Jon sounds unconvinced. “I’m going to get back to my office and find out Kerry has taped everything to the ceiling, or something.”

“I would never! What kind of person do you think I am, Jon?”

\--

_To: Shawcrap (12:45pm)_

_pls use our duct tape stash to put jon’s desk on the ceiling. i’ll pay you in enchiladas._

\--

Miles really, really likes sneaking up on Jon.

He’s done it so much recently that Jon has adapted, though, and it’s gotten difficult to get a high-quality reaction out of him. Most of the time, Miles is found out before he’s even started the attempt. It would be kind of sad if it didn’t mean that Jon was looking for him everywhere he went.

Today he’s tucked behind the curtains in the staff lounge. It’s an awful place; the curtains are about three inches too short and don’t cover the toes of his shoes, and he has to curl in on himself to make his shoulders fit. There’s enough dust to create an army of bunnies, and he’s afraid it might get in his beard, but it’ll be totally worth it when Jon sits in His Seat about four feet away for the afternoon cup of tea and paper-grading ritual he does every Wednesday.

Miles may perhaps know too much of Jon’s schedule, all things considered.

The quiet shuffling of academia at work crowds him in his close quarters. Professors traipse in and out of the room and take no notice of the shadowed mastermind. This lasts for what feels like hours, mostly because Miles has to sneeze and he absolutely cannot allow himself that luxury. He waits impatiently for a chance to enact his plot with itchy nose and arid throat. It’s not the most comfortable of endurances.

But then! The squeak of plastic wheels on hardwood floor, the call to action!

Miles jumps from behind the curtain with a yell, expecting to find a bewildered Jon before him.

“Jesus Christ!”

It isn’t Jon. Jon, the bastard, is laughing hysterically on the other side of the room. Miles has instead scared the shit out of Jack, whose coffee is now a steaming puddle on the floor.

“Oh, god,” Miles says.

Jack is staring at his coffee spill with sad teddy-bear eyes. “Dude,” he laments, “what the hell was that for?”

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I thought you were someone else.” Miles runs for the paper towels and trash can, mind racing as he tries to figure out where it all went wrong.

He cleans up the mess and apologizes about twenty more times, even going so far as to make Jack another cup of coffee as a peace offering. It takes about fifteen minutes, and Jon is there watching it all from his new corner. Miles hates him.

When Miles has remedied the situation to the best of his abilities, he collapses in the seat across from Jon and glares at him. “You made Jack sad,” he says.

“Me?” Jon demands, voice already squeaky in disbelief. “What did _I_ do? You’re the one who hid behind the curtain!”

“You sat in a different seat!” Miles insists, before realizing that it might be something a normal, sane person wouldn’t know and regretting every word he’s ever said, ever. “I – I was supposed to be scaring _you!_ ”

Jon shrugs and returns to his papers, apparently convinced he’s won the argument. “That’s not my fault at all,” he says. “You’re really bad at being sneaky.”

“Excuse me? I am the sneakiest, Jon. I have successfully sneaked more than anyone I know.”

That’s probably because he’s tried more often than anyone he knows, with the exception of Kerry. He leaves that part out. Jon doesn’t seem impressed.

“How did you know it was me hiding, anyway?” Miles asks.

Jon puts down the paper he was focusing on and rests his elbows on the table, staring Miles down. “A pair of shoes! – what then? Not much, if they are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these – no one can tell how much I grieve to say – were masculine; to see them, and to seize, was but a moment's act.”

Miles has no idea what kind of face he’s wearing, but in the distant part of his mind that cares about such things, he’s sure it’s ridiculous. Jon sits back in his chair with a smug grin, going right back to grading papers like he hasn’t just ruined Miles’ entire life.

“That’s Byron,” Miles states. “You just quoted ‘Don Juan’ at me.”

Jon hums in agreement. “Very good, Miles.”

“You’re not supposed to know poetry.”

“Why not?”

“You studied graphic design! You’re a picture person, not a word person!”

Jon tilts his head to the side, fixing Miles with that bemused and somehow judgmental look that he has. Miles grows more familiar with that look every time they see each other.

“Am I not allowed to study multiple things?” he asks.

Miles is not prepared for where this conversation is headed. “No, but – _did_ you study other things?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I was an English minor, with a focus in Romantic poetry.”

This is terrible. This is, in fact, the worst news that Miles has ever heard. “No,” he insists.

Jon nods. “I did, actually. The professor in my beginner’s composition class read us Keats one day in my freshman year of college, and I decided I wanted to learn more.”

Miles cannot believe this is happening to him. “No, Jon. No. That’s not – that’s not allowed, on any level. I cannot permit you to know about poetry.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward, placing his hands on the sides of Jon’s face. “I am the English professor, Jon. Words are all I have to offer. If you also know words, I am a superfluous addition to the conversation you could be having with _yourself._ My very fragile ego cannot handle a threat of this magnitude without a warning.”

Jon smiles as best he can with Miles’ hands constricting his facial muscles. “I don’t think that’s really how a friendship works,” he says.

“But what if it is, Jon?”

\--

_From: Risemonger (3:32pm)_

_Eliot’s use of the mermaids at the end of “Prufrock” imply that in fact there are multiple realities converging within the room of the party he is attending. Discuss?_

_To: Risemonger (3:34pm)_

_jon i refuse to discuss poetry with you until i know an adequate amount of graphic design_

_To: Risemonger (3:45pm)_

_honestly fuck you the mermaids are too complex to discuss over text meet me in the goddamn lounge_

\--

“So,” Kerry says. “You been stepping out on me, Miles?”

Miles holds a hand to his chest. “Absolutely not, Kerry! I would never tarnish your honor in such a way.”

“Oh, right. Of course. That’s why you never stop by my office anymore.”

Miles holds his hands out wide. “I’m here now, Kieran!”

“My name is Kerry.”

“People are so touchy about their names around here, my goodness.” Miles plops down into his designated seat opposite Kerry, ready to play catch-up in a world that doesn’t focus on Professor Jon Risinger.

Kerry makes a face. “No, Miles, I think they just like being called certain things.”

“Yeah, of course, my apologies,” Miles waves a hand. “What’s your schedule like today, Kerry?”

“I’m hanging around here until about three, but I’ll be free after that for whatever the hell you’ve got planned for us.”

Miles nods. “Right, obviously. What I have planned.”

“Do you have anything planned?” Kerry asks, laughing just a little bit.

“Sonic marathon and a whole lot of tequila, probably. It’s a good night to chill and do nothing,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We can even watch whatever new movie you’ve discovered that I absolutely have to see right now, if that’s something you’re up for.”

“It’s called _Cinema Paradiso_ and you’ll hate how much you love it, I promise.”

Miles sighs. “Does it have subtitles?”

“Obviously.”

“Of course it does. I’ll get drunk before we start it.”

And he does, of course. It’s kind of a bad idea, because there are these things called cell phones and when his impulse control is lowered, his texting rate goes way up.

Jon, as it turns out, doesn’t know _Cinema Paradiso_. Somehow, through the filter of alcohol and general contentedness, Miles comes to believe that it is his job – nay, his _duty_ – to record the entire experience for Jon to enjoy from the comfort of his own apartment.

It probably doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it gives him something to do when the movie gets slow and also he likes Jon’s company, even if it’s only textual.

About halfway through the movie, Kerry presses the pause button. “Who are you texting?”

“Jon. Why?”

“You’re smiling a lot,” he observes, placing an arm along the back of the couch. “An awful lot.”

Miles giggles. “I think it’s mostly the tequila that’s doing that,” he says.

Kerry seems unconvinced. “No, I don’t think so. You’ve been grinning at your phone all night.”

“Come on, Kerry, let’s just watch the movie!” Miles insists. “I’m paying attention, I promise.”

Kerry shakes his head. “Not that I don’t believe you, but. I totally don’t fucking believe you.”

“Okay, well. I will pay attention. Starting right now.”

“What is it about this guy, then?” Kerry asks. “Like, what’s going on there?”

Miles giggles into the couch. “S’nothing, Kerry. He’s just nice.”

“Nice enough to invade 2Spooky time?” Kerry prods.

Nothing about this conversation is appealing to Miles. He doesn’t really want to think about what this maybe-thing with Jon is, he doesn’t want to upset Kerry, and he definitely doesn’t want to ruin a perfectly good night with his best friend. He picks up his phone and puts it on silent, even going so far as to show the screen to Kerry.

“No more interruptions, Kerry. We can watch the movie. S’okay.”

Kerry nods. “No more.” He silences his own phone as a sign of solidarity.

The movie is great. Miles cries in all the right places, though not nearly as much as Kerry does. He even keeps his promise and doesn’t text Jon at all for the remainder of it, even though he wants to a few times. He does a great job, even if he kind of feels terrible for not telling Jon why he has to stop texting.

The credits roll on the screen and Kerry is sniffling on the couch beside him, elbows resting on his knees. “That one fucking scene, the one with the film reels,” he mutters. “I love it more every time I watch.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd, dude,” Miles teases, leaning over and ruffling Kerry’s hair.

Kerry swats at him, and then they’re wrestling with each other on the tiny couch. Miles is prodding Kerry in the belly, Kerry tickling Miles’ neck; they end up wrapped up in each other, a too-big puddle of drunken giddiness, and Miles couldn’t be happier.

They fall into silence for a moment or two, mostly focusing on catching their own breath. When their stomachs have stopped heaving, Kerry curls himself into Miles’ shoulder and grips the collar of his shirt.

“Please be careful, man,” he mutters.

Miles can’t feel his face. He doesn’t know if he’s smiling anymore. “I will, Kerry. I promise.”

“You make an awful lot of promises,” Kerry slurs

“I know I do.”

And Miles thought for a minute that it might just end with that and the conversation would be over until they were at least sober, but Kerry isn’t quite finished. “I just don’t want you to get hurt this time.”

“I know,” Miles repeats, running a hand through Kerry’s hair. “I know. I know.”

They fall asleep like that, two grown men on a couch barely big enough to hold them, no blankets or pillows to keep them comfortable. The film’s menu screen casts a soft glow over the room and they are caught in its dim unreality for just a moment. At the edge of the quiet, Miles thinks, something might be changing.

\--

_From: Risemonger (1:29am)_

_Is the old man going to die?_

_From: Risemonger (1:50am)_

_I’m going to assume you fell asleep on me_

_From: Risemonger (1:55am)_

_Text me in the morning as proof that you’re alive. Please drink some water._

_To: Risemonger (12:38pm)_

_i think my head is exploding. is this really living?_

**Author's Note:**

> About a month ago, I yelled to Jaz about Miles kissing Jon's forehead. Somehow, I managed to drag ver down into my newfound rareship hell. Ve was a saint and wrote not one, not two, but _four_ beautiful fics about Miles and Jon being in love. I, as a general enabler, encouraged this a great deal.
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm not such a reliable content creator, and ve has had to wait until now to reap the rewards for ver patience. Ve can finally read a Risingluna fic that ve did not in fact write. Hooray!
> 
> This fic was originally going to be The Twelve Labors of Miles Luna, a lengthy record of the process of wooing Jon. Then it was going to be a Five Times fic about five times Miles fell in love with Jon. I wrote out three scenes and decided that, really, that was probably an alright amount.
> 
> (For the record, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnveT5Zt6ms) was the song I listened to while writing the final scene. I love it for this pairing, and will probably reference it frequently in the future. Keep an eye out, if you're interested in that sort of thing.)


End file.
